dumbfoundry

After 20 hours of flight and lounging in airport transit halls, I check in at the Atlanta Hotel in Rotterdam. I am a guest at the Poetry International Festival, Rotterdam, The Netherlands. It is the first time I have been out of Zimbabwe, my home country. Irene Staunton, a publisher, travelled with me from Harare.

Alone. Room 230 is welcoming but the file the receptionist gave me is frightening. It has all the details of the Poetry International Festival programme. All of a sudden I have a tag. I am being addressed as a poet. I am supposed to regard myself as someone who writes poetry. I lie on the bed but can’t find sleep. I still cannot endure this unfolding experience. I rehearse my poem for the first night’s performance several times. It is already lunchtime, but I am not feeling hungry. I had two breakfasts – one on the flight to Frankfurt and another on the flight to Schiphol, Holland. Time is moving very fast. I leave my room to wander, not far but around the hotel building. I am afraid of getting lost.

This entry was posted by Ivy on Wednesday, December 01, 2004 at 10:45 PM. You can skip to the end and leave a response.